


Fate Has a Funny Way of Working

by milkyy



Category: DRAMAtical Murder (Visual Novel)
Genre: Fluffy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:57:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3876373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkyy/pseuds/milkyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since Aoba has moved in with Mink and while he's happy, he desires companionship when Mink isn't around. Who knew that would come in the form of a little pig. </p><p>Commission for whiteladydragon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate Has a Funny Way of Working

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteLadyDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteLadyDragon/gifts).



> Thank you so much whiteladydragon for supporting me! I hope you enjoy this fic it was so fun working with you, and I am so grateful for your patience and kindness throughout this process! (｡･ω･｡) 
> 
> I apologize for my poor titling skills--if anyone comes up with something better, comment or message me because I am actually awful at titles help haha

Mink frowns when I receive the text message from Koujaku. He doesn’t say anything. Which is fine. 

But I’m not one to keep my mouth shut and let things remain at just fine. No, fine is never good enough for me. I always end up on the side of making things a hell of a lot worse than they ever needed to be. 

“Look Mink!” I say, in reference to the photo on my coil screen. The baby is small, pink, and named Haruna. In this photo, she’s snuggled up against her father, one of the Benishigure guys, who’s thrilled and grinning. My inbox has been flooded with pictures and videos of the baby for the past hour and a half, a play by play of the team’s celebration over their newest and youngest member. Koujaku is excited, just as any doting leader would be. 

The newest addition to Benishigure! He sends, this time alongside a self-taken photo of himself, one arm busy with the camera while the other—albeit awkwardly—cradles the six week old baby against him. Wish you were here, Aoba! 

I can’t help but smile back at the photo. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Koujaku. Seeing his grin again sends a pang of nostalgia through my gut. 

It’s been almost a year since I left Midorijima to come live with Mink. I’ve grown to love living here with the privacy of our home in the mountains, just Ren, Rurukan, Mink and I together. But I can’t deny that after all these months I’ve missed the jovial chaos of my friends and the ruthless, uninterrupted rumble of city life. 

“Look,” I say again to Mink, blowing up the screen so he can see from his place in the kitchen. “She’s so cute.” 

“Yes, very.” He says it over his shoulder as he pushes the knife blade through the skin of a potato. He didn’t even look. 

“Mink,” I groan. “You could at least look.” 

“At what?” 

“At the baby,” I say, exasperated. 

“Whose baby?” 

I huff. “Does it matter? A baby is a baby. That’s enough to be excited.” Ren notices my irritation, and comes to sit in my lap. At least he’ll humor me, watching as I swipe through all of Koujaku’s messages.

“Koujaku looks quite healthy,” Ren says after a couple photos. “And I am glad to see Beni as well.” I smile, nodding. I forget that it has been a while since Ren has seen his best friend too. 

“Mhm. I’m glad they’re doing well,” I say, with a small laugh. “Koujaku looks excited to be one of Haruna-chan’s many papas.” 

Now Mink turns around. “I thought you were looking at pictures of a baby,” he says in a way that’s neither a question nor a statement.

His tone irks me a little, and I snip back, “No. If you would have come over, you’d see that it’s one Koujaku’s friends who had the baby.” I go back to looking at the photos, my frown slipping back into an easy smile. Amazing, how babies seem to have that effect on people. 

I glance back over my shoulder at Mink as he moves through the kitchen. We’ve had this talk a few times now. The Baby Talk. We always begin in a different way, and yet without fail, the conversation ends up in the exact same place every single time. 

Mink doesn’t think it’s rational to talk about the prospect children because we can’t have a child on our own. Not that I was ever really determined to have children—I just figured if it happens, then it happens. It didn’t really become something I thought about until Mink and I had our first conversation about our future and our families. And I just mentioned that having a baby around would be fun. He immediately cut me off, saying, “Neither of us can provide that so there’s no reason in fantasizing about it.” 

And from there on forward, anytime we had the Baby Talk, it always ended that way. I sigh, flopping my head into the sofa’s soft back and stare at the rings in the wooden ceiling.

“What is it,” Mink says after a moment.

“Huh?” 

“A boy? A girl?” he asks.

I lift my head. “A girl. Her name is Haruna.” 

Mink makes a noise under his breath.

“Mink,” I say, in my gentlest voice, “Would you want to have a boy or a girl.” I quickly amend, “If we could, of course.” 

“I haven’t thought about it,” Mink says. To be honest, I’m surprised he replied even if the answer is still pretty vague.

“Do you have preference?” 

“No, not really,” he says, dryly. “Boys have their charms. Girls have their charms.” 

Feeling a little brave, I press, asking “Have you ever considered adoption, if we wanted to have children?” 

“Adoption,” Mink says. The word rolls off his tongue as he considers it. Then his brows push together. “Where would we adopt? Who would we adopt from.” 

I bite my lip. That I hadn’t thought about. The thing is, Mink’s house is tucked a couple miles deep into the evergreens. And it isn’t like there are many people if you actually find the desire to venture out into speckling of buildings along the hill that makes up the nearest villages. The densest area is the shopping street where I work, and even then, I doubt there are many babies in need of homes right around that sleepy town center. 

Ren wiggles in my lap, readjusting himself. “We could go back home. To Midorijima I mean.” I don’t know the first thing about adoption laws though, and I wonder if anyone would even allow two people like Mink and I to adopt. 

“Not possible,” Mink says. “Two men, first off, would never happen. Second off, I was considered a criminal there. Something like that is highly unlikely. The two of us having a child is highly unlikely.” That hits like a rock to my abdomen, and I open my mouth to protest. Mink cuts me off. “There are some things in life you cannot decide.” 

I sigh, running my fingers through Ren’s downy fur. I hate to say it, but Mink is right. 

“What has you so intent on that anyway?” he asks after a moment of silence. 

“Intent on what?” 

“Intent on that,” he says again, this time tilting his head in the direction of my coil screen, a photo of baby Haruna still suspended over my wrist. “Are you lonely?” 

Lonely? I blink partially because I’m surprised he said it, and partially because he’s sort of right. Trying to diffuse the situation away from any talk of babies, I just say, “Well, maybe.” 

“Why is that?” 

I bite my lip, unsure of what to say. Well, I know what I want to say, the real reason. But it makes it hard, knowing that I just avoided some serious contention by dodging the whole Baby Talk, let alone bringing back something new to fight about. So I don’t really say anything, just shrugging my shoulders. And that seems to be fine with Mink. The potato chopping resumes. 

I don’t want to argue and yet, I can’t help but feel a little annoyed at the thought of my problems playing second fiddle to a potato.

“Ga-ah, I don’t know,” I finally sigh, exasperated. “Maybe if we went on a date or something.” 

Mink’s brows rise. “A date?” 

“Just something small,” I continue. I’m not sure where I’m going with this—considering that the idea of Mink planning a date is farfetched in itself—but I find the words easier than I ever have before. 

“Small.” He nods, considering it. Then his brows push together. “What does small entail?” 

To be honest, I have no idea. So I say, “I mean, anything really. We’re just sorta in a routine and I think it would help if we did something special every once in a while.” 

“Special?” he says. “First small, now special.” 

I groan. “Yes, special. Believe it or not, that’s typically something that couples do. You know, to keep things passionate. Rekindle the fire.”

“I didn’t know our fire needed rekindling.” 

I push a sigh through my teeth. “It doesn’t need rekindling—not now—but I just want to make sure that we tend to the fire. So it doesn’t fizzle out while we’re too busy baking pies and reading Othello.” 

“I thought you liked Othello.” 

“Othello is fine. It just isn’t…” I pause, frowning. “It isn’t sexy.”

Mink turns over his shoulder again, looking over at me with those honey brown eyes. And for the second time, I think I’m getting somewhere. “Do you want a different novel? A sexy novel?” he asks, and while his voice doesn’t change much in depth or pitch, I can hear a smirk curve the end of his sentence. “I can ask the shopkeeper for suggestions next time I’m at the bookstore.” 

I flop my head backwards again, making a sound that is sorta like steam coming from a teapot—just a little more grumbly and disgruntled. It wakes Ren up, and he glances up at me as if I’ve lost my mind. 

Mink looks at me the same. Then he goes back to the potatoes. Miserable, I sit there in misunderstood silence listening to the knife’s edge clop into the cutting board. “Doesn’t the idea of a date excite you?” I ask.

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“There’s nothing about that, that appeals to me.” 

Annoyance sparks across my nerves. “So spending a little more time with me doesn’t sound appealing to you?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

My eyes narrow. “That’s exactly what you said.” 

“Don’t find meaning in my words when there is none,” he says, voice hardened. 

“Then say things that make more sense,” I snip back. 

Mink quickly turns away, the knife hack, hack, hacking into the cutting board. I can see his shoulders tense underneath his shirt, the intensity of his grip jutting all the way up to the his bicep. 

I’ve sure done it now. 

We sit there for a long time, Mink cutting, me just stroking the short fur at the crown of Ren’s head. I think of saying something—not an apology per se, but something that may neutralize things a bit. And yet despite the silence, I can’t get a word in edgewise.

After a very quiet dinner (well, Ren and Rurukan sure have a lot to say; whether they’re feeling chatty or just sympathetic of the lack of conversation, I’m not too sure) we take our respective baths, as usual. And by the time I’ve slipped into my pajamas, Mink is already on his side of the bed, shirtless and wearing his reading glasses. I know what comes next. We’re going to read, then say our prayers, and go to sleep. 

I make it sound horrendous. It’s actually not. I like being curled up against Mink, his deep voice bringing life to text, his heartbeat offering a rhythm. The warmth is nice. The closeness is nice. Even reading Othello has been something I sorta look forward too. But feeling peevish sucks, and being embarrassed about it sucks even more. And I know Mink is just going to look at me with that same, ‘Oh, Aoba’ look, that’s compassionate, and forgiving…and maybe a little embarrassed for me too. 

I get under the sheets, and at first I am deliberately lingering toward the mattress’ edge. I can feel Mink’s gaze already on my shoulder, and my skin tingles with heat. Mink is still, and yet his presence draws me closer to him. First my arm, then my leg—I find myself scooting over to him until my head is pressed against his arm, and I can hear the breath in his lungs. 

He absentmindedly plays with the tips of my hair, fingering the braid that he had fixed in my hair a day or so ago. I lean into the touch, my own breathing softening as he begins to work through it. He tends to the inevitable knots, patient and gentle, fingers diving into my hair. We both agree that it has lightened a shade from the year’s sunlight. The first time Mink brought it up, he added that it looks nice with my new summer freckles. 

I hardly notice him shift. But I open my eyes, just in time to glance up and see him take off his glasses. He leaves them on top of our copy of Othello that hasn’t moved since he set it down last night. 

“Aoba I—” My name floats in the silence. It leaves me feeling buoyant and I can’t help but drift into his arms. 

We leave the book on the nightstand closed for now. 

-o-

Mink wakes me up early—well earlier than usual—and demands that I get dressed. 

“Why?” I groan, pushing my face into the pillow. Ren’s little paws pad over my blanket-covered form, lingering over me.

“It’s time to get up, that’s why.” 

I know that’s a lie. The sunlight is still dyed helenium orange. It fills the bedroom warm but not yet bright when Mink abruptly pulls back the curtains. I twist in the sheets. 

“Five more minutes?” 

“I will give you three.” 

I pout. 

Three minutes later, Mink has left and now, it’s Rurukan who perched on the bedpost trying to make conversation. 

“Mink is waiting,” he says, voice deep but tinny. 

I make a noise that resembles a whine. “I know.” 

“He wants you to get dressed.” 

“I will.” 

“I may not be authorized to divulge this information but, Mink has something on his mind.” 

That piques my interest, and I lift my head from the pillow. “He does?” 

“Yes.” I expect Rurukan to say something else, explain a moment passes short of any words and I decide he wants me to figure it out on my own. “He would like you to be ready as soon as possible.”

I hesitate, body still heavy with sleep, but I’m tempted enough to sit all the way up. I turn to the side, and smile. Ren is standing there, looking up at me expectantly. “Morning, Ren.” 

“Good morning, Aoba.” 

“What time is it?” I mumble through a yawn.

“It is 5:10 a.m. This is earlier than you usually get up.” Too sleepy to form a coherent sentence, I just nod. I paw at my eyes as I slip out from under the bed sheets. Ren follows. It hits me that I’m missing something essential—my boxers—and while the allmates certainly don’t care about my nudity, I still find myself blushing as I scramble to the chest of my belongings in Mink’s bedroom and dig out a pair of underwear. “Do you know the reason why Mink requested that you get up this early?” he asks, trailing behind me once I am decent (well, decent enough for now) and I slip out the door and down the hall toward the bathroom. 

“No idea,” I reply with a half of a shrug. “I’m guessing he wants to talk about something, though I have no idea what.” Ren skitters along on the bathroom tiles, hopping up onto the toilet cover. 

My hair is everywhere. I make my best attempt to smooth it down as I examine my reflection in the mirror. I poke at my sleepy visage a little bit before I decide that it’s a situation that cannot be helped. It isn’t until I begin brushing my teeth that it occurs to me that Mink has to work today. So if I’m getting any time with him, it is now. 

“Ren, do you think he’s upset with me?” I ask as I finish up in the bathroom. 

“I did not sense any anger from Mink this morning. Perhaps he just wants to spend time with you.” 

I bite my lip, holding the doorknob, hesitating to step back out. “We did argue last night…” 

“This could be his way of making it up to you,” Ren says. “Mink is very straightforward.” 

I decide Ren is right—per usual. With new confidence, I hurry to get dressed and meet Mink in the living room. He’s fully dressed, seated on the sofa and drinking a cup of coffee. I head straight for the kitchen. 

“Glad you gathered the energy to wake up,” he says. I hear the smirk in his voice, and I roll my eyes.

“You can thank Rurukan,” I say back. I realize he has a cup prepared for me, with the sugar and crème already out on the counter beside it. “Erm, thank you.” Mink makes his coffee so strong the smell of it burns the insides of your nostrils, so I end up dowsing it in crème until the bitterness is practically vanilla. Mink waits for me to finish, watching the entire time. I nearly drop my coffee mug and I trip over my own sock. Luckily no damage is done (well, besides the few splatters of my coffee-concoction on the wood floor) but I manage to clean up and take a few sips before Mink stands up. 

“You can bring that with you.” 

I blink at him over the rim of my mug. “Huh? Where are we going?” 

“For a walk.” 

A walk? 

I consider carrying the coffee mug with me, imagining the warm high it will bring once caffeine begins to soak in. But then again, what will I do with the mug afterwards…just walk around with it? That will be awkward. “One second,” I say, taking large, gulping sips. It’s a pretty good attempt to not waste it—I get about a forth of the mug down—before my stomach groans. Mink looks at me with his hand on his hip, lips quirking, amused. 

He cocks a brow. “You finished?” 

My gaze shifts and I grumble, “Don’t make fun of me.” 

“I’m not,” Mink says. “I’m just waiting.” 

“Staring doesn’t make it go any faster,” I quip back, setting down the mug. Mink’s eyes crease and he chuckles. I end up scurrying past him, though hearing his laugh makes me smile a little too (not that I let him see it). We gather our things—shoes, pipe, Rurukan, Ren—and we start our walk. 

I love the area surrounding Mink’s home. The mountains ascend into the misty strands of early morning clouds, clothed in forests that are rooted into thousands-of-years-old earth. The timberline is an hour’s hike up the mountain, however Mink’s apartment overlooks the forest downhill. I spent the majority of the winter indoors adjusting. Moving Midorijima’s perpetually above 70 degrees and sticky atmosphere to the crisp mountain air was a challenge. But summer brought in new foliage, thickening the woods with tangling vines and plump pine branches, nature’s glory sprawling out before Ren and I to explore. I’ve learned that I like having the woods at my doorstep, their unruly serenity refreshing after living so long in the city’s confinement of blocks, avenues, and alleyways. 

Our walk starts out silent. There are paths that wind their way through the woods, the softened soil carved by repeated use. It’s wide enough for a single foot at a time, and while I could easily step over it, something about it feels intrusive and I’d rather take small, deliberate steps. I watch Mink’s steel-toed boots from behind, his long strides, and I notice that he obeys the trail too. These paths were here before I arrived, deeply etched into earth, and probably have been for a long time. Maybe even before Mink. 

That thought is haunting and I jar myself away from it. 

“Aoba,” Mink finally says. “How is this?” 

“Hm? How is what?” I say, still distracted by the way the sunlight filters through the pine needles. 

“This. Our date.” 

I glance up. My face grows hot. A date. I run my tongue over my lower lip, suppressing a smile even though I’m facing his back. “It’s nice,” I say after a beat. “I’m happy.” 

Mink nods his head, and I’m curious if he’s smiling too. “Good.” 

We continue walking in comfortable silence, Rurukan flying ahead, Ren’s small footsteps behind us, my eyes focused on the small between Mink’s broad shoulders. I’m not sure how far we’ve gotten, but we’re deep in the forest where the sky is hardly visible through the tops of the pines. I imagine Mink must be taking me somewhere—but where?—and the thought gives me a mix of giddy excitement and curiosity, and I consider asking….though that would ruin the surprise. 

I smack into Mink’s back. 

“Mink,” I huff, rubbing where my cheek collided into his sturdy frame more embarrassed than I am hurt. “What are you doing?” 

“Quiet. I hear something.” He turns around, face hardening as he listens. 

I stiffen. Hearing something could mean a lot of things, a lot of bad things. I want to ask him what’s going on, what he hears but the look on his face is serious, and I rather not become something’s breakfast because I chose an unfortunate time to play 20 questions. The breeze pushes through the aspen leaves, a group of birds squabble, I can hear myself breathe. 

So, what exactly did he hear? 

I shift a little. Mink glances at me. 

“Aoba. Sit still.” 

“I don’t hear anything,” I whisper back. He’s either delusional or I’m clueless. 

Mink continues listening for a moment, his eyes narrowing as the wind rustles the leaves in another gusting breath. He almost starts moving again—almost. “There,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Something over there. It’s small.” 

I take a deep breath. Good. Okay, so it’s small. 

But small in comparison to what? I open my mouth about to say something. But the thought doesn’t quite make it to the tip of my tongue. And thank god it doesn’t, because the bushes a few paces down the path rustle a little. A little leg steps out, hesitating for a second before the snout, pink, pushes through the leaves giving the air a good sniff before deeming it acceptable. It’s a pig for sure. Not like a wild boar or anything that originates from these mountains. No, it’s little and pink just like the ones they show on television, a quintessential farm animal. It sticks out on the earthy backdrop, pop of color in endless green. 

“Wait is that? That’s a—that’s a pig.” He doesn’t say anything. His brows are pushed together, his lips pursed. “Mink?” I ask. “Is that normal? To see something like that.” He shakes his head, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him look so genuinely confused. 

“Nothing I’ve ever seen,” he says. 

It steps half of its body out and begins sniffing the ground, as if it’s on a mission looking for something. 

“Aoba,” Ren says his voice also lowered, “That specific sub-species is not native to this region.” 

“Where is it from then?” I ask.

“Sus domesticus,” Ren replies a moment later. “While the specific origins of this species in unknown, they are most commonly found on farms and bred for human consumption or as pets. This species can reach anywhere between 50 and 350 kg.”

“Perhaps,“ Mink starts. “It is from one of the—“

Sometimes, I don’t think before I do things—it’s something that gets me in trouble with Mink all the time. And it gets me in trouble today because before Mink can finish his sentence, I step around him. The piglet is so focused, it doesn’t notice when move a few paces closer. I kneel down. 

“Aoba, get off the ground.” 

The piglet, unbothered by our presence (or simply unaware), continues sniffing around.

“Shhh, you’ll scare it,” I whisper back. Unsure of how to get its attention, I decide to click my tongue a few times. That doesn’t seem to do the trick. But I’m determined. 

“Leave it alone,” Mink says. “Part of respecting nature is not disturbing it.”

“I’m not disturbing nature,” I say back. “It’s obvious that the pig lost. I’m helping.” 

“That is none of our business. Do not disturb the natural order of things.” 

“But obviously there’s something wrong if its out here by itself,” I say to Mink, narrowing my eyes. “Not only is it not from the wild, it’s a baby.”

“Baby or not,” Mink says. “There is reason that it is out here, and as humans it is not our position to meddle.” 

“But what will happen to it?” 

“Aoba, get up.” His voice has filled back out to its normal pitch. Now the piglet is looking right at us. 

Its nose twitches. I cringe. 

Then panic stiffens every muscle in the piglet’s body and I, in return, flounder. Little hooves scramble, darting left, and then right, then back toward the bushes where it came from. It takes a second for it to really get going, more focused on being panicked than actually escaping. And in that second, my body moves before my mind approves, flopping forward to grab the piglet’s body. 

“Aoba!” Mink hollers. “What on earth are you doing?” And as soon as I really realize what I’m actually doing, I’m face-first on the ground and I can feel the pig wriggling in my grasp. Its shrieking squeals rise over Mink’s voice scolding me. I just sit there for a moment, feeling like a cat that’s just caught itself the family canary. 

I think of how I want to explain myself—not that I really even have a clue what I’m doing. The pig stubbornly jerks, and for a moment, I worry it’ll slip out of my grip making my dirt-to-face connection entirely worthless. So I cup my hands around its body and pull it close into me. Anxiety pushes in out of its body in short puffs of breath, tiny heart pulsing heavy. “It was…the…I just wanted to help and it was…you…you scared it,” I sputter after a moment.

“Well if I scared it, then you gave it a heart attack,” Mink huffs, and I can’t deny that is pretty much true.

It tries kicking its legs out and twisting its body, but I refuse to budge. I feel cruel, but I can’t bring myself to let go.

“I can’t leave it out here,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. “Ren said it isn’t native. And it doesn’t seem to have parents around…I don’t think it would be left alone so young.” 

“Aoba, if you switch the position of your hands to secure the piglet at the belly, it will be easier to hold,” Ren offers. Ah, right. I quickly amend. I can still feel its little heart, lungs rising and falling against the pads of my fingers. It’s strange, I’ve never held something so small and lively before. Ren is around the same size, but it’s different with him seeing that he is an allmate. An actual animal…I can feel its warmth, its breath, the movement of muscle and bone underneath its bristly skin. I’m awed by it. 

Glancing up at Mink, I say, “I wonder how it got out here.” 

Mink makes eye contact with me for a moment, before reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his pipe. “I’m assuming it escaped from one of the nearby village farms,” he says, going back into his pocket this time for his matchbox. “Not that I know of anyone in particular that keeps pigs.” 

“Do you think its parents died?”

“I don’t know.” Mink places the pipe between his lips as he switches the match across the striker. It sparks with each strike, until finally a small flame sizzles to life. “It could have just gotten away.” 

The piglet has considerably calmed down, deciding its efforts to escape are futile. I enjoy how it feels in my hands, tiny and warm, and I’m hit with inexplicable emotion. “It can’t survive out here by itself,” I say. “It must have just escaped. Something else…something bigger would have come along and--” The thought makes my stomach tighten. 

“How do you know that?” Mink says, brows pushing together. 

“Because it’s small!” I say back. “It’s small and it’s probably lost. You know what it is like to be lost.” Mink visibly stiffens at that. And while I know I’ve hit a nerve, I continue. “It’s scary, not knowing whether or not you’re going to make it.” 

“It is not our choice to decide whether or not it survives.” 

My expression twists. “But if we can help it we should! It’s obviously in danger.” 

Mink gives me a look before turning away, staring off into the forest. “That’s life.” 

“Well, I don’t like that!” I protest. 

“Aoba, there are some things you cannot decide.” 

My mind flits back to the conversation we had yesterday. Something builds in my chest, uncomfortably thick and heavy, and I try to swallow that emotion down. 

“And there are times when you can decide! Like now!” Mink gives me this look, and I know exactly what he’s thinking, and now that the thought crosses my mind, I can’t deny that I think it is a little crazy too. “We can help. I can take care of it. We can take care of it.” I hold the piglet close to my chest. “At least for now.” 

Mink takes in a breath of smoke, and pushes past his lips a moment later in a sigh. “You can’t change fate.” 

“No. But we don’t always know what fate wants either.” 

He raises a brow, and his lips quirk. 

“True.” 

I continue holding the piglet against me, and I can’t help but smile. 

“For starters,” I say. “We’ll need a name.” 

-o-

In the end, Mink’s name wins. 

“It’s fashionable to name your pets English names back at home,” I pout. Mink is thoroughly unimpressed with my idea to name the piglet Pea. 

“You don’t even know what that means,” Mink says, and I can hear the chuckle in his voice. “If you want something English, at least let me give you some that make sense.” 

“Pea,” I coo to the little piglet in my arms. She seems to like me quite a bit ever since the first day we brought her in, and while she’s still wary of being held, she only puts up with it when I pick her up. “Pea, that’s a nice name isn’t it?” She gives me a blank look. The flat of her snout wiggles at me. 

Mink raises a brow, looking “Doesn’t seem like she’s too thrilled with the idea either.” 

He gives me three options. I choose Lily. Mink doesn’t protest, saying that we found her near a bed of lilies. I don’t particularly remember that, but I do think the name sounds elegant, so Lily it is. For the first few days, Lily spends her days hiding from us. I always find her somewhere different. Today, I find her in kitchen, sniffing out crumbs. 

“Lily,” I call, softly. She glances up, realizing that she’s being watched and tries to scurry away. Too bad there’s no place for her to really go, so she’s cornered in the kitchen looking at me like I’m the worst thing that could ever happen to a piglet. 

“Lily,” I sigh, calling again, “It’s just me.” I occasionally talk to her like she’s another allmate just for the fun of it. Mink claims it’s annoying, but it secretly amuses him I’m sure of it. 

But even when its just for the fun of it, sometimes I find myself forgetting that she’s not going to respond in a tiny, metallic voice like I imagine she’d sound like if she had one. I wish she did. Then, she could at least explain what I had done to get on her bad side in the first place (sans the whole kidnapping her from the forest to live in this strange establishment that we call a house.) 

Not that any of us are on her good side. She particularly dislikes Ren for whatever reason. Mink explained that Lily is a prey animal, and prey animals usually dislike anything that resembles a wolf, even if said wolf is actually a pretty mild mannered guy. 

“I’m coming in the kitchen,” I continue. “You don’t have to leave, you know. Just because I’m here—we can always get along together.“ 

It feels like one of those moments when two people are supposed to hug but no one knows who to start first as we just stare at one another. I take a step forward. She takes one step back. 

“I’ll be cooking something. Probably something that a little piglet would enjoy.” I know Mink wouldn’t be thrilled if he knew I was bartering with table scraps, but a few drops of stew shared wouldn’t hurt anyone. “Something that she sure would be disappointed about if she missed out on.” 

“Aoba, I believe Lily does not understand what you are saying,” I hear Ren say from the living area. “Therefore, she still sees you as a threat.” 

I huff. “Well how do I show her that I am not a threat?” 

“For prey animals, it is recommended to show a lack of aggression by decreasing your surface size. One way to do that is to lower onto the ground, and remain still.” 

“Like this?” I say, as I lower myself down to my hands and knees. 

“Yes. If you can try to be as quiet as possible as well, perhaps Lily will gain trust in you.” 

I feel rather stupid like this, especially since Lily is now looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. I feel even more stupid when Mink walks through the front door. “What are you doing?” he says behind me, and I practically jump off the ground.

I glance over my shoulder. “Well Ren said that—and Lily wouldn’t—and I—“ 

“Aoba, please get up off the ground.” He sighs. “You mustn’t go at it like that.” 

So explain to me why he does the exact same thing, getting onto the ground beside me. The only difference is that Mink starts making a soft noise, and gently stretches his arm forward. Lily begins inching toward him. 

That’s when I realize that there is only one of us on Lily’s good side. And that’s Mink. 

-o-

Mink remains the most well-liked in the household. Lily enjoys following much bigger footsteps than her own. My attempts to be friendly are futile during the first couple of weeks, her little snout shifting suspiciously as she eyes me up and down, before deciding that I will continue to be of no interest to her. 

“Do you think she’s still sore about the day we met her?” I ask Ren one afternoon. 

“She could hold some resentment,” Ren replies. “Pigs are known to have keen memories and strong emotions.” 

Rurukan, who’s perched on Mink’s armoire, says, “As well, prey animals do not take well to sudden motions.” He’s referencing the few times I’ve tried to coerce Lily into some form of contact—which usually ends up with me sneaking around the house until we cross paths. She’s very aware that she’s being stalked. There’s no other reason why she would dart into the other room in squealing terror every time she happened to run into me. Mink already scolded me for harassing her this morning, so I pout when Rurukan brings it up again. 

“Well, maybe if she didn’t run away I wouldn’t have to come at her so suddenly.” I sigh, plopping my face into the palms of my hands. I feel like an unpopular stepparent at this point. 

Had I really done her a service at all by plucking her from the woods? Autumn is rolling in slowly but surely, the forest already beginning to capture the sunset in its leaves. It’s a colorful reminder that winter is soon to follow, and something about leaving Lily out in the woods to survive the first of winter’s bites just didn’t seem right. But now as she walks past the bedroom, small hooves clicking against the wood floors, I feel a pang of self-reproach. 

“Maybe you could change her opinion of you?” Ren suggests. “Do you think she would respond to food?” 

“Like a bribe?” 

“Maybe not in the same sense. Rather, a peace offering.” I stare at him. 

“From my understanding, there are a few apples in the kitchen that will need to be used soon,” Rurukan adds in. 

I consider it. 

Lily does hang around the kitchen a lot. And the one and only time she shows interest in making friends is when I am either cooking, or eating. 

Food. It’s the perfect bribe. 

The three of us set to the kitchen. As soon as we open the door, we hear Lily dart back into her hiding place. I pay it no mind, making my way straight to the bunch of apples that has been sitting on the counter since I gathered them from the market. They’re fragrant, a little soft, but just enough to tickle her senses. I grin, grabbing one and a knife from the drawer. 

“Ren and I will leave you two at it,” Rurukan says, once I’ve sliced the apple into equal parts. 

“Yes,” Ren says. “We’re sure our presence won’t be much to your benefit.” I give a small, understanding nod. I can’t imagine Lily being too thrilled if I bring the whole gang in to swarm. 

I know she’s in the living room. There’s no doubt about it. She has a particular hiding place, a dark nook between Mink’s sofa and the blanket tossed over the arm of it, where I usually find her either camping out for a nap, or hiding from me. 

The swirling end of her tail peeks out from underneath the thick blanket. 

Pigs, apparently, must not be known for their stellar hiding places. 

I get down onto my haunches, setting the extra apple slices onto the wooden floor. Mink makes this noise to get her attention, this clicking sound. I try imitating it. I’m hardly practiced—though does anyone have to practice clicking their tongue? 

Apparently not, because a moment later I see her piggy bottom wiggle a bit. It’s a signal that I have her attention. “Lily,” I say through a breath, soft enough to be mistaken as a whisper. “Lily, come on out.” Her bottom wiggles some more. “Lily, I brought you a treat.” I reach one of the apple slices over to mouth of her wool cave, juicy and tart, the perfect bidding chip. “It’s an apple.” 

I can see her little frame wriggle underneath the blankets, twisting herself around. I nudge the apple slice’s tip a little closer. I can see the flat of her nose begin to emerge. 

“Doesn’t it smell good?” I coo. I let the apple piece come a little closer to her. Her nose waggles. She snorts. “Doesn’t it smell good enough to eat?” For a second I’m sure I’ve got her. She delays—god, she’s so stubborn—but her resolve is fast crumbling. “Don’t you want to come out and try it?” 

For a second, she doesn’t do anything. We’re locked in a stalemate. 

Time to pull my heavy artillery. 

“Gee, looking at it sure makes me hungry,” I say, my eyes widening in feigned greed. “If someone doesn’t claim this, I may just have to eat it myself.” 

I don’t know why I think saying all this is going to change her opinion. Seeing that Lily doesn’t speak any human languages. And may not be impressed by my improvisation skills. But I do know that Lily follows scents like old men follow baseball statistics, and so as soon as I inch the slice a wee bit closer, drawing her just to the edge of the blanket, I snatch it away. 

And out pops Lily. She looks irritated. Well, as irritated as a pig can look. 

“You hungry?” I tease, feeling victorious. I forget the last time I’ve seen her up close like this (usually, she’s just a dart of pink and then occasionally, she’ll buzz around Mink while he finishes off his dinner). 

We stare at each other for a few seconds, long enough for me to notice the black freckle on the top of her snout, and realize that she’s not actually staring at me but rather the apple slice that I’m holding right next to my face. Her expression shifts as she gives me a look that’s right at the crossroads between anticipation and desperation, with a sprinkle of contempt. 

I smile a little. “You want some?” I say. 

Yes, her eyes say back. 

I don’t bother teasing her any further. I bring the apple piece a little closer, just enough where she’ll have to leave her blanket fort and face me. She considers it. Then moves forward an inch. Then another inch. And I really haven’t been this close to her since the day I grabbed her in the forest, and I get that same reverent feeling all over again brought on by being so close to an actual, live animal. 

I’m so busy being excited by the proximity I don’t even realize it when she takes a bite from the apple slice. She chews and comes back for another. Each bite she comes closer, relaxes, and so do I. I’m smiling. Probably like a maniac, and I wonder why she’s so unfazed by the one actually scary thing that I’m doing. 

Our bonding over the apple doesn’t last long. Mink comes home from work, and Lily decides that I am still the lamer of the two humans in the household. 

She doesn’t run away as often in the next few days, but when Lily starts a new habit of coming over to sit by Mink’s feet while he reads, I can’t help but be a little jealous. 

“Why does she not like me?” I pout to Mink. He gives me this narrow-eyed look over his reading glasses with one brow raised. 

“It takes time to gain trust.” 

“Then why did it take you ten minutes?” 

“Because I didn’t attack her,” he says back with a small shrug. 

“I never attacked her,” I huff back, and he tilts his glasses to give me that exact same look from before.

“You just need patience. Do the same thing with apple each day. Her trust will grow.” 

I sigh, leaning a little closer against him. It doesn’t feel fair, seeing that I spend the majority of the day with her at home, but one last shot is worth a try. 

The next day, I am determined. Once I send Mink off to work, I slice up another apple and hunt Lily down. We do the same thing as before—I coax her out of her hiding place, I offer her the snack on the condition that she comes closer to me, she relents. Sometimes I get her to sit near me for a while. Other times she’ll get close enough to let me scoop her up into my arms. After a few weeks, the allmates and I agree that we’ve made substantial progress—and I think its time we get Lily to bury the hatchet with them too. 

We start out a little rough, but Ren is patient enough sit beside me long enough to coax Lily into another one of her daily snacks. Granted, it’s much harder to get her to come out with Ren looming, and some days she simply won’t at all. But one afternoon, I have Ren offer her a particularly ripe strawberry. It immediately catches her interest. It takes a few nervous paces and a look of apprehension, but temptation pulls her all the way over to Ren’s paws where we’ve strategically placed the strawberry. 

“Aoba, I never realized that—“ 

Lily glances up at the sound of his voice, and their eyes meet. She blinks. Ren cocks his head. Her eyes widen with what I can only assume to be horror at the sight of Ren talking, and before we can even react, she darts back out of the room. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, looking up at me with concern. I bite my lip, holding back a laugh, as I shake my head. 

That’s something we will have to work on. 

Over the next few weeks, I learn that she likes more than just apples. Peaches are her personal favorite, though she will nibble on the occasional potato skin and green bean. She also likes table scraps, though it’s a rare commodity now that Mink has outlawed me from feeding her at the table (though there are times when her little snout rubs against my leg from underneath the table, and I can’t resist but pass a few bites down while Mink is absorbed in something else.) She’s also not allowed to sleep on the bed—well, this is just a theory we both originally agreed on. But it doesn’t really mean much when it’s 20 degrees outside, and Lily is determined to find herself a much warmer bed than her own. It’s actually Mink who lets her up on the mattress the first time, but I was hardly bothered waking up to find that Ren found himself a buddy to curl up with at the foot of the bed. 

Lily has a deep, inexplicable bond with Mink that I find fascinating. His way of interacting with her is simple, and yet he transcends the barriers of language in a way I could never quite imitate. I teasingly tell him that he’d make a good father one night while we’re lying in bed. He chuckles.

“I’m being serious,” I say back. 

“And what makes you think that?” 

“Well,” I say archly, “You’re quite popular with Lily.”

Mink pushes a short huff of amusement out his nose. “What does that have to do with being a good father?” 

“Because usually people who are good with animals are also good with children,” I say. “It’s pretty much fact.” 

“Pretty much fact doesn’t sound very accurate,” Mink says back.

“Well in Midorijima, that means that it’s super accurate. Anyway, I’m an expert at this.” 

“Oh really.” 

I nod a few times. “Koujaku is good with animals—kids like him. Little kids like Mizuki, so do animals. Yoshie-san is the same way. There’s an undeniable trend.” 

Mink raises a brow and gives me a noncommittal shrug. I grin. He doesn’t have to say it for me to know that he thinks I’m right. 

“Alright then,” he says after a pause. “According to your statement, then you’d make a good parent as well.” 

At first, I’m still grinning—Lily and I have gotten closer, I can’t deny that—but as the second part of the sentence begins to register, the edges of my smile waver, and then fall. We’re headed back in to the Baby Talk territory, and we both know how these conversations usually end. 

“Mink I—“

“Aoba, do you feel lonely now that Lily is here?” he suddenly asks. I’m already slipping, but that’s enough to knock me flat over. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, does having Lily here making things not as lonely. You may not remember this but a few months ago, you expressed that you were getting lonely here by yourself.” 

“I—“ 

I do remember—I’m more surprised that Mink does. Having Ren and Rurukan was one thing, but the inevitable energy and mess that comes along with a piglet makes my days alone at home suddenly much more…lively. Too bad words aren’t really working for me right now so after a couple beats, I decide to nod instead. 

Mink visibly relaxes a little, and I can see the corners of his lips slip into the smallest of smiles. “I’m glad.” 

-o-

Winter comes and passes in a series of cold snaps. In the meanwhile, Lily grows. Just a bit, but it’s exciting to see her mature in different ways. The most comical to me is when I compare her beside Ren, who suddenly looks so small in comparison. 

“To think,” I say. “She was once so scared of you.” 

“Now I believe she could beat me up,” Ren comments and I can’t help but laugh. 

As she grows, she becomes more eager to explore. On the days where the snow hasn’t accumulated much, I take her out on walks with me through the forest. Not anywhere far, just around the property so she can sniff out different treats nestled amongst the covering of pine needles on the forest floor. Sometimes I let her outside by herself, when I can’t bring myself to venture out in the cold weather (or rather, when Mink tells me to stay inside.)

Today in particular, Lily is anxious to go outside. 

I give her a look from my seat on the sofa—I’ve been cozied up to Ren for the past half hour, reading a book Mink had suggested for me. She stands at the door, much like a dog would, body wiggling with eager impatience. “Lily,” I sigh, nestling a little closer into my blanket. “Five minutes.” 

I know I’m being lazy. But this is the fourth time she’s asked to go outside since Mink left for work an hour ago and it’s gotten a little more than frustrating. She’s been a lot like this lately, restless. Mink claims that it’s normal for animals after they’ve spent an entire winter cooped up inside, but I still can’t find the patience to chase her around this morning. Spring fever or not, Mink and I got to bed late, the sun is barely breaking over the horizon, (and my back may or may not be just a little bit sore from last night’s activities.) 

“Why don’t you find yourself something to do?” I groan when she begins nudging at the doorframe with her snout. She looks over at me—I can see a smidge of disdain in her stubborn eyes—and I huff. “This is why we made you toys,” I say, pointing at the pile of toys Mink and I constructed for her. The snow was deep enough to keep us inside that day. We had the whole weekend to ourselves, and that night I decided that winter was my favorite season because that’s when Mink feels his warmest. 

“Perhaps she needs to go to the bathroom,” Rurukan suggests, deep voice right above my shoulder. I tense in sputtering alarm—well now I’m awake. “I am sorry for startling you.” 

“I thought that you had gone off to work with Mink today,” I say, breathless and trying to regain my composure. 

“No, I was told to stay home and keep you company.” I go a little red at that, and I bite back a smile. “But it seems as if Lily is desperate to go out. I would assume as an animal, she would have to use the restroom.” 

“But, she just went out.” I sink into the sofa cushion, flopping my head over onto my shoulder. “This is her fourth time…or fifth.” My brows crease as I think. 

“It’s the fourth,” Ren says, nestled underneath the crook of my arm. 

“Either way it’s a lot,” I continue. “Can’t she wait for a bit?” Neither Rurukan or Ren answer me. And after a couple seconds of silence, I sigh. “Do you think I should let her out?” Both of them shake their heads, agreeing. I sigh, pushing myself up from my seat. The blanket plops to the floor around my ankles. “Fine. Next time I’m not letting her back in though,” I say, more as a warning to her as I make the seven step journey over to the door. Just seeing me get up gets her all excited and she begins wiggling even faster. 

The air is crisp with the lingering bite of the evening and winter’s final chills. It hits me in the face, along with the searing sunlight that has lit the whole mountainside gold, as I open the door. Lily zips out the house—well, as fast as a pig goes, setting straight to sniffing around the main property. I watch her, squinting. 

She’s on the trail of something, sniffing her way up and down the clearing, stopping every once in a while to nibble at something lodged in the leftover snow. Seems harmless, no need for supervision. I head back inside, leaving the door open just a crack for whenever she decides she’s had enough of the outdoors. 

But after three hours, (I somehow fell asleep in the face of my book), I wonder just how much outdoors does one pig need. I yawn as I get up, stretching my limbs up and over my head. I make my way over, noting that the door is still open, just how I left it—meaning either Lily slithered her way into the house or she is still lingering around outside. 

There’s no sight of her in the immediate area around Mink’s house. I glance around a few times just to make sure my eyes aren’t fooling themselves. It’s not normal for her to stray too far away from the house. And yet, she’s not out here. 

“Lily,” I call out the door, hoping that she’ll appear out of a bush or something. The breeze rustles the bushes. A lark chirps somewhere overhead. “Lily,” I try again. I know it won’t help much—she rarely responds to voice commands, and that’s only if she’s feeling up to it. I eventually step into a pair of my boots and head outside, continuing to call for her. Its late morning now, and everything is as it should be, bustling with natural life and yet, quiet. It sends chilling ripple down my spine and my heart begins to pound. She’s got to be out here. She was just here. 

“Lily!” I raise my voice to a holler. The sound bounces down the mountainside. I stand still, listening, desperately hoping she’ll pop out from a bush, maybe slathered in mud or munching on berries. My heart squeezes in my chest. She’s not here. I scream some more, pacing around the thickets uselessly, still in my pajamas. 

My mind decides to imagine the worst scenarios one by one, preoccupying me for who knows how long. All I know is that I’m now in the middle of the forest, the sun has made its ascent above the trees, and there still no Lily in sight. I stand here, suddenly aware of my situation. I’m breathless from my yelling, and my inner lip sore from nervously biting it. The wind nips at goose bumps on my skin. 

“She can’t be gone,” I croak to myself. “She’s not gone.” 

But she is gone. 

I stand out here for a while, listening, thinking, hoping that some stroke of luck will bring her right to this patch in the forest. The morning fades to afternoon, the sunlight speckling the earth and my skin through the leaves. I want to move. I want to go home. I want to find Lily with her nose buried in our compost outside, or curled up in the bed against Mink as he reads another scene from Othello, his steady, rich voice lulling the both of us to sleep. But something inexplicable holds me here. Maybe it’s hope. 

Then, it dawns on me that maybe I’m just irrationally stubborn. 

-o-

Mink found me a little while later. Rurukan and Ren were apparently worried after an hour of my disappearance. And without my coil to track my location, they decided to get Mink. 

It always amazes me how well he knows this forest. Or maybe, how well he knows me. Either way as soon as I recognized his frame pushing through the thicket, I broke into a pathetic sob. 

“She’s not—Lily is—she left. I lost her, she left,” I choked incoherently through tears and snot. Mink gave me a look, the afternoon sunlight warming his features. Without saying anything at all, I knew that he knew what happened. Wordlessly, lifted me up onto his back. I hated that I was getting the yoke of his shirt all wet, but he shushed my blubbering apology. 

I wake up in Mink’s bed, my shoes off and my clothing changed. I blink at the reddish haze of the setting sun that filters through the drawn curtain, my fingers curling against the familiar softness of Ren’s fur. He feels me wake up and pushes a little closer beside me, letting me nuzzle my nose into his back. 

Emotion rises from my gut like bile. Sadness, regret, a twinge of humiliation at the thought of Mink seeing me looking so desperate. But gaping feeling inside my ribcage distracts me in its usual unrelenting persistence. 

Mink is right. There are some things you can’t decide. 

-o- 

In late June, I coerce Mink into taking a week off of work. It was hard work and required some serious persuasion, but after cooking a nice dinner and offering to take a bath together, I was able to corner him into a deal. 

“One week, that’s all,” Mink said firmly. 

“One week exact,” I replied, holding myself back from a victorious grin. “No more, no less.” 

I’m grateful that Mink agreed. While I enjoy spending time with Ren and Rurukan, and my occasional days at work, the routine silence around the house while Mink is gone is, in some ways, enough to drive me insane. I’ve tried to express my loneliness a few times to him—I’ve even brought up the Baby Talk again—and yet, I spend my afternoons wandering around outside where at least the quiet has a certain life to it. 

On his first day off, Mink wakes me up at his usual time: 5:15 a.m. a.k.a. not my usual time. 

“Mink,” I groan, pawing around the bed for a pillow I can dive underneath.

“Aoba, it is morning.” 

“Just because it’s morning it doesn’t mean we have to wake up,” I grumble back. “You’re supposed to be taking the day off.” 

I feel Mink lean down and kiss me between my shoulder blades, muttering something against my skin. Then he gets up. “Come on, Aoba.” 

“Why?”

“I want to take you on a date.” 

My face scrunches. “A date? Right now?” Mink chuckles. 

“Yes.” I hear the drawers open, and Mink begin removing his nightclothes. I peek a little, watching. “Aoba, is that what you’re wearing on our date?” He raises a brow at my boxer briefs, and I blush. That gets me up. 

We eventually leave the house. The allmates stay home today—we decided that part of Mink’s week off includes privacy. I love mornings in the summer here (well, once I’m awake), and I already feel much livelier as Mink leads us down the path toward the forest. We keep a conversation buzzing between us, Mink leading the way. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve gotten to have a casual conversation with someone. It’s nice. 

Once our conversation has slipped into a comfortable quiet, I recognize the trail we’re on. My heart immediately pinches. This is where we found Lily. 

“Mink, do you think she’s happy?” 

“Hmm? Who’s happy?” 

I glance at the ground, biting my lip. “Lily.”

“Ah. Well, if she is alive, then perhaps.” 

My expression twists. “Mink!”

“What?” 

“Don’t say something like that so bluntly!” I exclaim, swatting at his arm. I keep it lighthearted, even if the implication of it is very real. Lily was never taught how to survive in a forest like this. We continue walking. “Do you think she’s alive?” I ask after a while. Mink shrugs. 

“I believe that no matter where she is, she is very grateful to have met you.” 

I smile a little at that—I can tell he’s trying to make me feel better—and I reply playfully, “Well, she always liked you better.” 

Mink chuckles. “I won’t say she liked me better,” he says after a moment. “She just had a slight…affinity towards me.”

“Same difference.” 

Our bantering keeps us busy as we make our way up the trail. We’re near a clearing when I hear a rustle in the bushes. Mink hears it too. He stops. 

And just like the first time this happened, I smack into his back. 

“What now?” I grumble. 

“An animal,” Mink says, his voice suddenly hovering above a whisper. I wonder how he can tell the difference between an animal and the wind, but I don’t bother questioning it now. We stand still, listening and waiting. 

The first time I see it, I have to blink a few times, just to make sure I’m not seeing things. But the second time, I really do see pink. A pink nose. A pink leg. A hoof that’s not pink but might as well be because I know right away that only one thing in this forest would be that color. 

“Look!” I say. Trying to translate my excitement into whisper doesn’t work all that well. It doesn’t seem to catch Mink’s attention either (or rather, he’s confused as to what I’m so excited about) so I begin poking him in the back too. “Mink look it’s—“

But this pig is obviously a baby. Probably the same size as Lily was when we found her. 

I deflate with disappointment. 

“It’s Lily,” Mink says. 

I glance up at him and sigh. 

“It’s too small to be her,” I say back. “She was already bigger than that when she left our—“ 

“Look closer, Aoba.” 

I give him a skeptical look but oblige, looking back. That’s when I see two pink bodies. Then four. One big, three small. I can’t deny myself that it’s her, that’s Lily. My heart leaps. 

But how—

“She must have found that pig farm,” Mink says with a shrug. “And I suppose that she also made some friends.” 

Sure enough, one of the piglets follows behind Lily’s trail, imitating her every move from nose to tail. The other two have busied themselves searching for snacks in the dirt, noses wiggling. Just like Lily always did. Emotion washes over me, and I can’t help but grin. 

“Do you think there’s any more of them?” I ask. 

“They say a pig can have sometimes thirteen to a litter.” 

My eyes widen. “Thirteen?” Mink’s lips quirk as he nods. Thirteen wiggling noses. Thirteen swirled tails. Thirteen Lilys. My expression melts into a dopey smile. “Can you imagine thirteen of them?” I say, dreamily. 

“That’s a lot of pigs.” 

Meanwhile, Lily is nudging the one of piglets that has made its way edge of the clearing back into the group.

“We have space for thirteen, right?” 

Mink sputters and whips around to give me a wide-eyed look. “What?” 

“Thirteen piglets.” 

“Aoba, absolutely not.” 

“Why not?”

“There is no need for us to have thirteen pigs,” Mink huffs, crossing his arms over his chest in attempt to appear stalwart. I move my gaze back to the pigs, unfazed. “Who’s going to feel all of them?” he asks after a moment, his voice losing some if its resolve. “Who’s going to watch over them?” 

“Me,” I say. Which apparently isn’t very convincing, so I add, “And Ren. And Rurukan…and you.” 

“Aoba, no.” 

“But Mink—wouldn’t it be fun?” I smile up at him sweetly. To most people, Mink would appear unwavering. But I know Mink, and I can see that small flicker of interest pass across his features. I can’t help but smirk. “I feel like this is what fate wants.” 

Mink sighs. “Is it?”

Giddy, I nod.


End file.
